


Transparent Blue

by molo (esteefee)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Chromatic Character, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-15
Updated: 2006-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/molo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It only breathes when you hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transparent Blue

**Author's Note:**

> _Many thanks to CC, beta magnificent._

That one, the one with the light in his hair—there's something crazy about him, something wrong. Or maybe it's something right. Other people, they look at you like they want to strip the flesh from your bones and then fuck what's left.

But not him. Or the dark one that's always right next to him, the one with blue instead of mud to his eyes, like he can actually see you, but isn't holding judgment just yet.

Mr. Light doesn't hold anything, no anvil waiting to drop. He just looks at you clear and easy, and his lips don't curl at you.

But you can't tell them anything, because Rodney is upstairs watching from the window. Rodney will always be there.

Rodney is Daddy.

ooOoo

Starsky rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch, but the face blurred, the silver too dark against the navy. Nice, expensive watch; too bad he couldn't read it.

"What time is it?"

Hutch didn't even bother making a comment. He just pulled out his pocket watch.

"Three-thirty." He clicked it closed and shoved it back into his pocket. "A.M." As if he needed to add that part.

"Fifteen hours. Jesus."

"And three bodies going on four."

As if he needed to add that part either.

"Let's try Huggy again."

It was late, very late, when they got to Huggy's pad. Huggy opened the door, his black silk robe open, revealing his smooth, narrow chest. The robe had golden dragons on it.

"Nice robe, Hug."

"I _know_ you didn't wake me up at this hour to compliment me on what we all know to be my exceedingly fine taste in clothing." The eloquently-worded complaint was interrupted midstream by a wide yawn.

"We got another stiff," Starsky said, trying not to catch the yawn, but feeling it ache under his jaw. He ignored Hutch's angry look that indicated he preferred the official term 'body'.

"And I'm supposed to pull a rabbit out of my hat? Do you even see a hat?" Huggy raised his bony arms and made a gesture as if he'd relapsed into Huggerini the Incredible.

Starsky gave in, yawning until his jaw creaked.

Hutch took over. "You were gonna talk to Moby about that girl of his that died. You said he wouldn't speak to us directly."

"And don't you think I would've called you if I'd managed to track down the slippery S.O.B.? He's got cop radar like you wouldn't believe."

Hutch sighed. His shoulders dropped like sandbags. "Okay, Hug. Sorry we bugged ya."

"Next time, try using this marvelous invention called the telephone."

"We were going to call," Starsky said, "but we didn't want to wake you."

The door closed in their faces so fast that Starsky almost took a knock to the chin.

"We're tapped. We got nothing."

"Time to call it a night," Hutch agreed.

Starsky could only yawn in reply.

ooOoo

You usually don't have to worry too much about the kinky ones if you've got a good man to watch over you. But Rodney isn't that man. So you learn to squint away from the memories, some of them as bad as the ones that sent you out on the streets to begin with. Sometimes you scrub so hard you leave marks on your skin, but the water is never hot enough in the communal bathroom. Not nearly hot enough to clean you.

You see them again, cruising the streets, Mr. Dark and Mr. Light. It almost doesn't matter that they are the Man. You want them to talk to you. You want to see yourself like that for a little while.

Like a person.

Rodney is upstairs sleeping off a rolling bender. What could it hurt? But you don't approach them directly, because there are eyes everywhere. And that john—that kink who left you crying in the shower even though you thought you'd forgotten how—he could be out there watching. So you take a john, a safe-looking one, not a big spender, but who the hell cares? It gets you off the street and near a motel phone.

You know a girl who knows this bartender who has an in with them. You tell her to keep it on the down-low, that it's life and death.

But then, what isn't?

ooOoo

"Zebra Three, Zebra Three, see a man named Huggy in Echo Park."

"Copy that, Control." Starsky cradled the mike and put his foot back up on the dash.

"Do you mind?" Hutch peeled a U-turn, his cheap retreads squealing.

"You gotta be kiddin'. I'm more afraid your floorboards will contaminate my sneakers."

Hutch muttered something unpleasant and Starsky grinned.

A blast of rain hit the windshield all of a sudden, as if the skies had opened a gate. Hutch flicked on the feeble wipers, and Starsky grimaced at the smears they painted across the window.

"Four bucks will buy you new blades."

"And another lousy comment will buy you a bus ride."

ooOoo

The rain lets up as you wait in the park with the bartender. He isn't anything like expected, not beefy with big fists, but thin, with kind eyes. But you don't let that fool you. You give him a fake name, so he can't track you down later, and you keep enough distance that you can run if you need to.

He says, "They'll be here soon. My brothers never let me down."

Weird that he calls them that, two whities. But maybe he is okay, like them. Like they have to be, if you are going to get out of this without a broken leg, or worse. Rodney likes to break a girl's legs. And he really doesn't like you talking about the johns, especially not to the cops.

But that man held you down and talked about how he wished he had a knife, one so razor-thin it could get in to cut the sin out of you, one piece at a time.

A car drives up to the curb, and you duck back behind a bush, just in case. But out comes Mr. Light, with Mr. Dark on the other side. He jogs around the car, and they move together with the same stride, as if they're dancing.

They are so clean.

"Hey, guys. This here is Sahara. Sahara, I'd like to introduce you to Messieurs Starsky and Hutch."

You nod at Mr. Light, first. "Mr. Starsky?"

He flashes a funny smile at you, as if you just made a joke.

"No, Sahara. I'm Hutch." His voice is just as gentle as you remember it, as if he's talking to someone hurt. But you still have enough pride to resent that a little, and you refuse to shake his hand.

"This is my partner, Dave Starsky," Mr. Light says. He nods at the dark one, and there's so much fondness in his voice, it's like the words glow there in the air between them. You don't get it. Cops who care about each other? Cops who aren't just out to eat donuts and break heads? It's almost too much to believe.

But you have to. Because of the kink, and Rodney. You've already been out too long, and unless these guys give you a little traveling money, you won't have anything to show for the afternoon.

So you go right into it.

"I had a john about a couple of days ago. A kink. He was...bad."

Mr. Light looks concerned. "Did he hurt you, Sahara?"

Hurt. Hurt is such a funny word. So many ways to hurt, and lots of them don't involve bleeding. It seems somehow this one might understand that, because he lifts his hand as if to touch you, but then pulls it back.

You nod. "He hurt me pretty good, but more he scared me. Said some real crazy shit. About cutting the sin out of me..." You go away for a second to the bad place—that dirty, awful room of his that smelled like rats and bird shit and turpentine.

Mr. Dark looks excited now. He's practically bouncing. "Sin. He talked about cutting the sin?"

"Yeah. Said there wasn't a knife sharp enough to do it, so he'd have to make himself one." You shiver, and again Mr. Light moves as if to touch you.

You wonder what that would be like, to let someone touch you like that—because you actually wanted them to.

That might be nice.

"I know where he lives," you say. "He took me to his place. It smelled awful."

"Can you tell us where?" Mr. Light has caught the excitement, and his eyes are glowing like the glass from a water bottle, transparent blue.

Maybe you should make him give you money first, because without it you're fucked. But you can't escape that clear blue, so you nod. He gives you a smile, and when he turns it toward his partner, it becomes like a tiger's grin, all eager teeth.

His fierceness makes you glad, because right now it feels like something might actually go the way it should. Just when it seems like nothing ever does.

You take them there. You don't remember the apartment number, but you tell them which floor and to follow the smell to the end of the hall. They slide out of the car and up the front stairs, so quietly you can almost hope they will catch the kink unaware.

But it's time for you to make like a shadow yourself, because if they get this guy, no way do you want him marking you as the one that tipped them off. You'll figure out how to deal with Rodney. You push aside some junk that Mr. Light keeps in the back and start to open the door. That's when you see it, on the floor just under the front seat.

It's a book. _The Power of Positive Thinking._

You laugh.

ooOoo

The crazy bastard let them right in, which was a good thing, since they didn't have a warrant. But the stench alone would have served as probable cause.

Hutch manhandled the perp onto the bed and cuffed him while Starsky read him his Miranda rights, and then they both pulled him to his feet, keeping his body tight between them. Hutch was breathing heavily through his mouth and could hear Starsky doing the same.

"Sinners! Whores of Babylon! Corrupters of the flesh!" the man ranted, his mealy mouth foaming with spittle.

"I'll give you corruption," Starsky muttered, putting a hand up to his nose. The look he shot Hutch begged him to lighten things up.

"I think we need a new gig," Hutch said as they walked down the hall.

"Truck drivers?"

"Nah. My back. Plumbers?"

"I've had enough of toilets. Concert pianists?"

"Well, the doctor promised I'd be able to play once the cast was off."

It stopped Starsky dead. Hutch pulled impatiently on the suspect until Starsky followed.

"Oh, ha, ha. Jesus, Blintz, your jokes are so terrible I have trouble even getting them."

"Sign of a fine mind." Hutch was distracted by his view of the car as they walked down the front steps. The girl, Sahara, was gone. She'd left his back door ajar.

Starsky trotted to the car. "Let's call the team in. Then we can take this guy to booking ourselves."

His motive was obvious, but Hutch let it ride. He knew just what his partner was thinking—how very fucking little he wanted to return to that room to gather the evidence they'd smelled there. Trophies, the criminal psychologists called it.

Small pieces of women, Hutch called it.

They booked the guy then went upstairs to do their reports. Hutch finished first and leaned back in his chair, thinking.

"What?"

"About the girl...Sahara."

"Yeah?"

"Maybe we can do something for her—get her off the streets."

"Hutch...." Starsky gave him a look that called him a sucker.

"I mean, she took a big risk helping us. Least we can do." Hutch locked on Starsky's eyes, holding them until he gave a rueful grin.

"I'll call Huggy. Maybe he can find something for her."

Hutch didn't say anything, but he felt his lips curve as he signed his report.

ooOoo

It's not so bad, tending bar. It's a damned sight better than tending the johns. For one thing, you don't have to shower as much. For another, you get to keep your tips. And Huggy doesn't seem inclined to break either of your legs.

Sometimes the two cops come in. Mostly they're too busy on one case or another, and a lot of times they look dragged down, but they always have sweet smiles for you when you pull them a beer.

You call them Starsky and Hutch now, and they call you Anita.

And you see yourself in the clear blue.

 

  
_Fin._   


 

December 15, 2006  
San Francisco, CA

  



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